There’s a new rose bush in the garden

Twenty years ago, although we already had my two cats (Crazy Clancy and Lady Jenny), Mike and I decided that it would probably be good for Heather, his cat-loving daughter (at the time living with us), to have a kitten of her own.

A friend of a friend had taken in a stray who turned out to be pregnant. Mama Cat somehow managed to produce eight kittens: five females and three males, all with remarkably similar colouring and markings. I figured a female kitten would be less likely to make Crazy Clancy any crazier. By the time I rang the woman in question, four of the females had already been adopted. There was one female – claimed by me – and the three males left.

As explained in a previous posting, Heather and I set off to collect one kitten and came back with two.

Angie, the female, quickly worked out that she was getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop as far as Heather’s affections were concerned and decided she was going to adopt Mike as her person. No argument from him.

If not at first sight, it was definitely love.

When I returned to Gabriola after Mike’s sudden death in Vancouver, Angie had no interest in me or in Catherine, who so kindly came back with me. Angie trotted out to the car to see where Mike was and when it was clear to her that he was not with me she was inconsolable.

But we muddled along. As well as having Tri on my lap while I was reading or watching telly in the evening, I now also had Angie curled up by my shoulder.

Blind as a bat, Tri kept on grooming Angie.

About this time last year the vet told me Angie’s kidney functions had all but packed in. There were, he said, medication which might work, but no guarantee. I started trying to prepare myself for the worst. Happily, the medication did seem to do the job. Angie perked up, back in my arms again.

Then Tri, my big galoot, got sick and was gone so quickly I couldn’t believe it.

Jenny died in 2002, aged 16. She was buried in what was then barely a garden. Clancy made it to age 18. Typically, although he’s been in the garden for several years, he can still scratch.

The same weekend I buried Tri under a rose bush last October, I dug another hole nearby, convinced his sister would soon be following him. I started trying to make bargains (with whom I’m not quite sure): Please don’t let Angie die before my birthday, before Christmas. Like the Energiser bunny, she just kept going, bless her. In the spring I filled the hole back in.

Well, we were together for nearly a year longer than I thought we would be. But when she stopped curling up with me in the evenings and then stopped eating anything except cooked chicken, I knew it was time to let her go.

I’m not much on the afterlife, but as I buried her beside her brother yesterday I was hoping that Angie and Mike have been reunited.

For the first time since we bought this house in 1996 there is no cat in it. But there are four in the garden.

It’s all amazing

Wake up this morning to discover Mr Froad – absent from some days – has returned, though not to the fuchsia he’s previously favoured, but to one of the hanging basils.

Why Mr Froad? Well, when he first turned up, he was brown (like a toad), except for surprisingly green eyebrows. Do not doubt me. I have witnesses. Then one day he moved from the earth in the pot to the moss and was suddenly bright green. Some sort of chameleon frog? Perhaps. But more mysterious was how the hell he got into the hanging pot in the first place. (Mystery solved by my friend Ginny, who pointed out that he was a tree frog and could therefore climb. Ah.)

You do not believe Mr Froad changes colour?

Okay, here he is a few hours later on the side of the pot. A completely different shade of green and the black stripes have disappeared. The Amazing Mr Froad.

Speaking of amazing… It’s the Gabriola Theatre Festival this weekend. Unlike last year when I was in it, having spent the entire summer learning half a play, this year I did some pre-festival volunteering on the ticket booth to earn a free pass to all the shows.

I’ve just come home from watching The Amazing and Impermeable Cromoli Brothers, an amazingly funny one-man show written and performed by festival favourite Lucas Myers.

Anyway, anyway… Back to the garden.

Since my last update, I’ve had my first batch of cherry tomatoes – and picked the last of the peas.

Oh, but wait a minute, you can plant more than one crop of peas per summer, can’t you?

Why, indeed you can – and look at them sprouting.

Lesson learnt from first planting: Bamboo poles are fine for growing peas up to a point. After that point they tend to fall over, so the once-upon-a-time lilac bush protector has been dragged out of the woods an put into service. (I’m already having visions of using something similar to grow beans next year. Oh, my.)

This is today’s pickings. Okay, it’s true: I’ve always managed blackberries and cherry tomatoes in the past. And two strawberries might not seem that impressive, but, please note, neither of the strawberries has a big bite out of it, so obviously the squirrels, like me, forgot the strawberries flower and bear fruit not once, but twice. Oh, and check out the tiny cherry tomatoes. These are from the mystery plant thrown in free at the market. There are millions of them on the plant. I’ve never seen such miniscule cherry tomatoes before in my life.

More courgettes coming along.

Oh, and look!

I now have not one, but two butternut squash growing. (Or should that be squashes? What is the plural of squash?)

This business of having decent, productive soil is going seriously to my head. Just think how much I could grow if I had another raised bed!

Elsewhere in the garden…

Not entirely sure my one apple has grown at all in the past month, but I remain (for some reason) optimistic.

And the stargazer lilies have opened up. God, they have an amazing scent. I’ve never been a particularly big fan of lilies, but these really are something else. I’m so glad Pat introduced me to them. I think I’ll just go outside now and sniff them again. Perhaps with a glass of wine.